


Different Worlds

by TawnyLocke



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 21:58:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4893877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyLocke/pseuds/TawnyLocke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of unfinished bits of stories as the show is clearly moving on to a different central mystery now with entirely different character paths -- particularly Annalise! -- so these stories don't seem like they fit in anymore.  Abandoned so that I can write new stuff about new canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michaela and Connor making a pivotal decision

They got away with murder. They were not entirely sure how, but luck, if you could call it that, blessed them to a ridiculous degree and left them with a lifetime parting gift of guilt. Michaela quit after the first year -- her ability to look Professor Keating in the eye slowly dwindled away to nothing until she had no choice, not if she still wanted to practice law. Asher stayed on for the year, but switched to corporate, which wasn't that big a surprise.

Connor wondered how Wes and Laurel could stay and continue to work with Professor Keating. Keating made it easy because she never let the grief show; her MO was to continue plugging along. The only change was the hours she kept, because she kicked everyone out at 8:00pm with no exceptions. She was right in the end: it was always the quiet ones you had to watch out for. Connor knew he cracked under the pressure, as did Michaela, but Laurel and Wes kept their calm and still made fairly rational decisions even when everything else felt like it was melting all around them.

He left immediately after the semester, and Professor Keating was maybe numb enough at the time or didn't care enough about a law student leaving that she didn't even give him that much grief over it. "I have 20 other people who'd be willing to take your place, Mr. Walsh," she had said, and dismissed him from her office. Asher called him a wimp on his way out -- Connor couldn't find it in himself to disagree. Michaela couldn't meet his eyes then either, though they've made progress on that part now. Wes and Laurel remained calm, frustratingly and annoyingly so.

The four of them had one last drink to bury old ghosts in Wes's grungy apartment a few months after the police declared that the trail was cold for Sam Keating. That skank Wes was so attached to next door was probably working. Connor couldn't find any fucks to give about her.

"The question I want to ask," Connor said, "is how you three can keep working there. I don't have any illusions about me, but how the hell can you keep looking her in the eye?"

Michaela was an experienced drinker, which was a surprise. "I need a reference. Then I can get out."

Connor boggled at her. "Are you fucking serious? A reference from the woman whose husband you burned? Are you listening to yourself?"

"We all made a stupid mistake, Connor," she hissed. "It doesn't have to destroy the rest of our lives."

"It wasn't a mistake," Wes said, peeling the labels off his beer can in neat strips.

"Keep telling yourself that," Connor said. "I hope the pussy you're getting is worth all of that."

"Say one more word about her and you'll regret it." Wes looked nothing like a puppy then.

"We got away with it," Laurel said. "We committed the minute that coin landed. There's no point in going back now."

"How the fuck are you two so calm? How?"

And Connor noticed then how formidable Laurel was. Good eye contact, a placid expression on her face. "Because if we go down for it, Bonnie does too. And Frank. Even Professor Keating. Think about it, Connor. We're not experts in burying evidence, but have you noticed how lucky we are? Someone's been helping us from the sides."

"How do you know it's them?" Connor wasn't proud of how high his voice went, but he couldn't believe this shit. Then he noticed Michaela's stunned expression.

"You know something about Frank," Michaela said, astonished. She turned and faced Wes. "And you know something about Professor Keating."

Wes and Laurel met her stare. Connor looked at all three of them and it had the look and feel of truth. It wasn't just them who benefited from Sam Keating's disappearance becoming a cold case, one of those sad mysterious cases on true crime shows about men who just walked out of their lives like it was an old skin they'd shed and no longer had use for. 

"The question is," Wes said, "is whether you two want to know, or get out to protect yourselves."

Connor chose to run.

* * *

Once a month, he met Michaela for drinks. The issues with Aiden were long past them -- they could even joke about it on occasion, though Michaela still didn't appreciate it when Connor gave her tips on how to please Aiden as a joke. It felt like they could even get to that though, given more time. It was Aiden who was uncomfortable with them meeting for drinks, but according to Michaela, all she had to do was raise an eyebrow and Aiden buckled.

"Any news from the others?" Connor asked. This was usually how each drink session started.

"Nope," Michaela said. "You?"

"Nope."

And on to other things they went. Connor cracked a joke about Aiden's assets, Michaela "accidentally" tipped a drink on his lap, and at the end of every night, they nodded a goodbye and took separate paths home.

* * *


	2. Escape from Oz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annalise Keating and Oliver Hampton meet, but in different lives and circumstances.

"You have a visitor," the guard said. Oliver's family had disowned him a while back because they could take a gay son and they might have been able to take a criminal son, but not both combined. The lawyer for his trial was a public defender improbably named Wesley Gibbins who had genuinely tried his best, and he was able to make some difference, but Oliver knew that for any dedicated public servant, time was short and the client list far too long. Which meant that this was likely someone whose information he had hacked and leaked into the world, looking for some sort of closure in their lives.

The one big difference his public defender was able to swing was Oliver's sentence to a minimum security prison. Oliver knew a lot of things about himself, and he knew that a maximum security prison would have likely destroyed him. His 5 year sentence here was survivable. Not ideal, but survivable.

He walked into the visitation room and saw three people stand up. The woman was immaculately dressed in a red-brown leather jacket and black skirt and she effortlessly commanded attention. She was flanked by two bearded men, one older in a complete gray suit with a vest, the other more informally clad in a black blazer and white shirt. The smirk looked natural on the younger man and made him seem like he knew something and wasn't above lording it above you.

"Oliver Hampton?" the woman asked. At Oliver's nod, she nodded back and continued. "My name is Annalise Keating. These are my associates Frank Delfino and Connor Walsh. I have a proposal for you."

He sat down on the uncomfortable orange chairs. Keating's face was impassive and Delfino was grabbing something from his briefcase. He happened to look at Walsh, who had lost the smirk and looked like he was really paying attention now.

"I'm not sure what I could offer that would of interest to you, Ms. Keating," Oliver said.

"That's Mrs. Keating. And you can offer me many things, Mr. Hampton."

"Oliver."

She acknowledged that and moved on in a brisk and no-nonsense way that Oliver couldn't help but admire. "Mr. Walsh was a classmate of Mr. Gibbins, who had some interesting things to say about you."

"Mainly that you thought you were doing the right thing," Walsh said. "And let's skip the formalities -- call me Connor."

Oliver tried to ignore what sounded like a line, even if something in him thrilled at the prospect of it. "I was doing the right thing," he said, directing his attention to Keating's unwavering attention. "I just went about it the wrong way."

"And there's a way to fix that," Keating said. "You've been an exemplary prisoner. What you released into the world were clear ethical violations being hidden deliberately, but you went about in the stupidest way possible." She clearly didn't believe in mincing words. "I have resources that Mr. Gibbins doesn't, and I'm willing to take your case pro bono."

"The catch being?" Only fools refuse free gifts, Oliver's mom used to say, but being in prison meant that free gifts weren't free at all, and Oliver was familiar with the blowjob obligation after two years in prison.

"No catch," Keating said. "But once you're free, employment might be difficult to come by, particularly under house arrest or limited movement. A freelancer with your skills though," and here Keating paused with a brief quirk to her lips, "the sky's the limit, I suppose."

Oliver laughed. "So that I can go right back here with what you're asking. I don't even know what you do."

Keating smiled, but it was far from comforting. "I'm a defense attorney, Oliver. The very best. And I wouldn't work hard as I would to release you only to send you back here. That doesn't do me any favors."

He looked at her in detail then, taking in her clearly expensive clothes and her no bullshit attitude. He looked at her two colleagues and knew then that her choices on who to bring were far from accidental -- it was like she peeked telepathically into the buried subfolders of his brain titled Oliver Wank Fest.

"Where do you want me to sign?" Let the cards fall where they may, though from the expression on Keating's face, it was clear she had some say on where they were going to land.

* * *


	3. Crank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver tries his best to heal Connor's issues.

Oliver lost himself in Google looking at drug addiction resources and soon drew the conclusion that Connor most likely had a problem with crystal meth. A lot of reputable sources noted that meth caused an increased compulsion to have sex, something Oliver once took as flattering and now had to view as desperation on Connor's part, which wasn't great and didn't do a lot of wonders for his ego. A willing wet hole, Oliver bitterly thought. 

This wasn't about him though, it was about Connor and getting him some help.

He took advantage of his slow Saturday mornings and printed out information from reputable sources. He called some friends of his who knew people who had succumbed to crystal meth and got the phone numbers and addresses of local treatment programs and support groups. _What the fuck, Oliver_ was the most asked question, and he said it was for a new friend who was going through a rough time, though he resolved to call them later to reassure them that he didn't have a meth problem.

Oliver took meth during his heady every-night-is-a-club-night phase. Out of the closet and truly independent for the first time, he went out to Woody's in Washington Square West, which was maybe cliche but nevertheless one of the best places to go, and tried his best to paint the town red. On nights where he stayed up to 3:00am with work the next day, he took some uppers and some meth and calculated it as best he could so that he would be coming down just so he could get to work in the morning, then rely on coffee -- a piss poor substitute -- for the rest of the day. He knew first hand how easy it was to get caught up in it, because meth made him feel alive and amazing, like the diet he fastidiously maintained and the daily workouts he diligently performed all paid off for the night and made him the most attractive man in the room. He was lucky that he didn't get addicted to it, that it was something he was able to use and then let go. He saw enough bad cases, men with serious meth mouth and who couldn't help tapping everything or taking apart their jackets one stitch at a time, that he consciously limited his use, then gave it up forever.

I will be a judgment free zone, he thought. He knew what the experience was, and he could hardly hold it against Connor for indulging when he had done it himself. What he didn't have experience with was the addiction part, but he could learn that. He was a smart man who put himself through college on his own, without any help from his family. He could do this. 

The resources on the web put an emphasis on fruits and vegetables to restore alkalinity in the body, since drug use often created excess acidity. He changed into his winter clothes and decided to go food shopping. Maybe he'd go around to some of the treatment centers too, get some brochures and information. Oliver was a man on a mission.

* * *

When he got home, taking far longer than he anticipated, Connor was sitting down on the floor of the hallway.

"Hey," Oliver said. Connor looked tired and miserable, but he smiled when he saw Oliver.

"What's all that?" Connor gestured to all the bags Oliver was carrying.

Oliver shrugged, knowing he looked self-conscious and embarrassed. "I did some research online and they recommend fruits and vegetables for people who...have your problem." He hoped the pause wasn't that awkward as it seemed to him. "Spinach, kale, apples. Got some information from some treatment centers too." He noticed Connor's expression and didn't know quite what to make of it. "No pressure, OK? I just want you to know that I'm willing to help, and this place can be somewhere you can go to if you need a break, but without the source of your problems." Connor's thin lips twisted at that, and Oliver got a feeling in his gut that he knew better than to deny. There was something more going on here.

"Kale smoothies and spinach omelettes every day?" 

"Don't forget Brussels sprout soup," Oliver joked. 

"Gross."

"Get up." Oliver put down some of his bags to get his keys. Connor picked up the bags, and together, they walked into his apartment. Oliver got the fruits and vegetables out of his reusable bags and put them on the counter and couldn't help but notice Connor's moue of distaste at the kale. "Not a kale fan?"

"It's bitter grass," Connor retorted. "Maybe it's better smoked than eaten."

"Hey, drug humor," Oliver said. "You're making progress already."

"I'm way past Step 12," Connor said. His smile was a pale imitation of previous ones designed to sneak right into Oliver's defenses, yet somehow more powerful for it because this was Connor smiling for real, despite the fatigue and unhappiness clouding him.

* * *


	4. A Genetic Twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to Get Away with Murder, with superpowers.

Professor Keating was thought to have some sort of telepathic power initially, but she didn't. Connor knew this, but somehow he can't help but wonder if Professor Keating was one of the rare people in the world born with two unrelated powers. Her actual power was still fearsome though, as she had the ability to nullify energy.

During their first class, a firebreather outraged by how callous Keating was being over a potential case let loose an accidental stream of blue flame in his rage, and Connor could feel the entire class gape in horror, then astonishment, as Keating raised an eyebrow at the stream of fire as it was a fly she could flick away with her fingers. She casually waved her left hand with one deliberate, efficient gesture, and the stream of fire dissipated as if it never existed.

"If you're done, Mr. Gibbins?" She spoke with her usual calm authority as Gibbins sat down in embarrassment, and Connor thought then that if he was heterosexual that he would have given it a try with Keating. She was Mount Everest made into a person, awesome and terrifying and magnificent all at the same time, and to Connor, there was nothing like a challenge to whet the appetite. He knew better though.

"You cannot let your emotions get the best of your powers, especially in the courtroom," Keating continued. "While there are some powers that justify a power nullification bracelet, firebreathing is not one of them, Mr. Gibbins." She turned off her presentation and looked at the class. "What are the powers that have been deemed by the Supreme Court to deserve nullification while trying cases in a courtroom?"

Pratt stood up and rattled them off without being called. "Telepathy, empathy, probability manipulation, audiovisual image creation and projection, shapeshifting and technological manipulation."

"You're missing one, Ms. Pratt."

Connor raised his hand. "Pheromone manipulation."

"Said the voice of personal experience," Keating said, and turned her presentation back on. The ability to nullify energy made her proficient at identifying all kinds of energy, even those invisible to the naked eye. She wasn't immune, but she could see him coming a mile away and could bat away his power with no effort -- he couldn't even get a read on her. Connor was grateful for that.

* * *

Many people in his life wondered why Connor chose to go into law considering his powers would have to be nullified at all times, but that was the appeal of it for Connor. People were a neverending stew of smells and tastes and feelings, all of it primal and overwhelming. Only a lifetime of filtering them out has kept him sane, plus a few power tutors.

Wait List was candy, fresh grass over old compost, and a seemingly inviolable hopefulness. Prom Queen was expensive 184 proof vodka with tart citrus and a keen sort of desperation. Frank's Girl was seawater, clothes stored with mothballs, and an eerie sense of calm. Douche Face was cheap cologne on dirty skin and a surprising sense of sweetness. He hadn't figured out Bonnie or Frank yet apart from icy and dangerous respectively, but that was all he needed to pick up from them really. 

Those kind of thoughts often sent him into tangents and distractions, and the cold focus afforded to him in a courtroom with a power nullifier was something he didn't take lightly. 

And in the case of the Aspirin Killer, he met the biggest distraction of all.

"I'm the manipulator of technology at our firm," Oliver said. "I don't work in the exciting parts of it."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Connor said. "With your consent?" At Oliver's nod, Connor projected sex hormones at Oliver, who started displaying the symptoms in a few minutes: flushed cheeks, dilated pupils and shortness of breath. Connor inhaled deeply to read Oliver and got a vanilla pod split wide open, fresh sweat, and a dark pit of self doubt, an intoxicating combination. 

After he got the emails for the case, he fucked Oliver like he was under threat of enforced abstinence the next day. Drunk on him, high on him, crazy over him already, and distantly, Connor thought that maybe he should be worried. Then Oliver looked at him, and the thought was lost.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurel turns into organic steel, Michaela can control probabilities at an intermediate level, so she's another one who has to wear a nullifier to court but looks fashionable doing so, Asher can move superhumanly fast, but only for 60 second duration after which he tires out like a cheetah, Bonnie has incredible memory and can recreate scenes she was witnessed in her mind down to minute detail, and Frank can go backwards in time for one minute, which allows him to correct just-made mistakes.


	5. With Casualties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor gets caught, and Oliver has to live with that.

On the day Connor Walsh and his colleagues got arrested for first degree murder, Oliver was at work in a quiet panic. He only got more nervous when his office opened and an imposingly beautiful woman stepped in, her dark skin smooth and sleek like a raven wing under the energy saving lights of his office. She was flanked by a petite and pretty blonde woman and a well-dressed man with a thick but well trimmed beard.

"My name is Annalise Keating. These are my associates Bonnie Winterbottom and Frank Delfino. You're Connor Walsh's mysterious Oliver, correct?"

Oliver stared at her. Connor had mentioned her a lot, more often than not complaining about the amount of work she expected from him, but the complaints were always grounded by the respect Connor obviously felt. Oliver had thought many things, but the image in his head of the powerful Annalise Keating was someone who looked like Angela Bassett, sharp and angular and able to cleave through crowds like a laser guided missile. The real Keating's features were softer, but the steel in her eyes and in her voice was both stronger and subtler than he imagined. A thunderstorm made into a person, rumbling only when needed.

"Yes, I am," he finally stuttered out. Her gaze was cool and assessing, but a flicker of warmth went in and out, so swiftly that Oliver likely imagined it.

She took the seat in front of his desk without being prompted while her associates opted to keep standing.

"The police will call you into questioning soon to ask questions about your involvement in the murder of my husband," she said. Her eyes revealed nothing.

"I didn't kill your husband, Mrs. Keating." 

"You were romantically involved with someone who allegedly did," she countered.

"Just because we slept together doesn't mean I knew everything about him." Oliver laughed, bitter to the core. "Case in point."

She leaned back, her unrelenting look only intensifying. "The way I see it, you're directly responsible for significant breakthroughs in several of my cases. I can't represent you unfortunately, and neither can anyone in my firm. Conflict of interest," and that phrase she seemed to take extra care in enunciating. "That doesn't mean I can't give you good advice, free of charge."

"I already have a lawyer, Mrs. Keating."

"Call me Annalise, please. And Oliver, only a fool refuses free gifts."

He can't imagine calling her Annalise -- something in him curdled at the thought. "Free doesn't mean it's without strings. Or obligation."

She smiled at him warmly then, and if he didn't look carefully, it looked untainted by present circumstances. "I can see what he saw in you. If you need other resources, I can help." She rose smoothly from the chair and walked out. Her associate Frank nodded and followed her. Bonnie stepped forward and slid a card on his desk. Her high heels clacked on the hardwood flooring as she took lots of little steps to catch up.

Oliver breathed a sigh of release. He didn't realize he was holding his breath.

* * *

He hadn't seen Connor after that morning he had shown up delirious and crazed. Oliver had done what he could, but Connor wasn't saying anything other than _I screwed up, Oliver, I really screwed up._. After that morning, he disappeared completely from Oliver's life except for postcards.

There were days when he could almost forget what he had gotten involved in when he started seeing Connor. Then he'd get a postcard and remember. Oliver got one yesterday, a close-up image of a cat. It had nothing written on the back.

Before Connor left, seemingly with the intention of never contacting Oliver again, he left precise instructions on a note that Oliver found on his refrigerator as to what he should say to the police: 

1) Tell the truth, but not all of it. 

2) Tell them something small that you did for me that's not flattering to you, but not enough to get you into serious trouble. 

3) I was just someone you fucked and did favors for, but you didn't ask questions because the sex was good. 

4) Keep my number on your phone -- I'll change mine. Say you wanted to hook up but you kept getting different people after today.

5) Rip this note into pieces and flush it down the toilet.

There were scratched out paragraphs that he couldn't make out after the list. Finally, Connor had written this:

_I'm sorry. I wish things had been different._

Oliver memorized every bit of that list down to the swirl of Connor's letters and flushed the letter as requested.

* * *


End file.
